


Close At Hand

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mycroft the spy, art-fic, not series two compatible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little look into Sherlock and John's relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close At Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this drawing: http://doublenegativemeansyes.tumblr.com/post/13091445691/at-least-john-is-not-having-a-nightmare-about
> 
> Not beated or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. It was meant to be short and sweet but got a little plot-ie. Not a bad thing though. :)

One of the most surprising things John learned about Sherlock Holmes wasn’t that he had a secret love of strawberry-flavored anything. Or that he wore the gloves and scarf to hide his amazing body heat (seriously, the man ran at a constant ninety-nine). No. John wouldn’t categorize any of that as surprising. The most surprising thing about Sherlock was his behavior in bed.

To be short: Sherlock was a cuddler. Right after they first fell into bed together after the world’s longest silent courting process, Sherlock rolled over to John, wrapped his arms around the other man and held on for dear life. The next morning, John had more finger bruises from the afterglow than the act itself. He didn’t mind. Really, he didn’t. Because the feeling of those long arms wrapped around him, and those creamy legs squeezing him ever so tightly… that, as far as John Watson was concerned, was heaven.

Everytime, as soon as he pulled out of Sherlock and collapsed onto the bed, the taller man would roll over and bury his nose in the crook of John’s neck. Arms and legs always followed. Coiling around him like a giant, pale snake, with the whisper of “Thank you, John,” in his ear.

“You weren’t so bad yourself,” John smiled, fingers tracing up and down Sherlock’s spine.

And they would fall asleep like that. John’s arms wrapped around Sherlock’s back. Sherlock’s everything wrapped around John.

John always figured it was due to Sherlock’s upbringing. From what he’d observed of his relationship with Mycroft, John would hazard that it wasn’t an overly affectionate family. Which was fine. Though it may have warped Sherlock a little, probably to the point where the touch barrier surrounding him was on the thick side. Even after a year of watching them work together, Lestrade still raised his eyebrows everytime John touched Sherlock and wasn’t immediately sent to the hospital with a concussion. And that was after they’d been “together” for most of that time.

To an outside observer, John understood how it could seem strange. Except it wasn’t. Everytime Sherlock reached for him and they tumbled down together, John could read it in the way he held on so tightly. Sherlock loved him. He never said the words, not even in a whisper, but those thin, strong arms told him everything he needed to know.

And when he woke in the middle of the night with Sherlock sprawled on top of him, one hand shoved down John’s pants, all but crushing his cock, and the other arm wrapped around John’s neck, hand down his shirt, John knew he was loved. He knew that Sherlock held him this close to make sure he was still there when they woke up.

Smiling against the black curls tickling his nose, John kissed Sherlock’s ear. “I love you,” he whispered. Sherlock would probably never say it back, but that didn’t matter.

“John,” Sherlock moaned in his sleep. Hot fingers curled tighter around John’s flaccid cock.

“Oh God,” John squeaked, his voice jumping an octave. Yes, he loved the way Sherlock clung to him in his sleep, but sometimes, his cock didn’t appreciate the hot, strong, squeezing hand wrapped around it. “Sherlock,” he breathed. No matter how much he loved this, it had to stop now. At least, to readjust. “Sherlock,” he shook the other man. “Love, please wake up.”

“Mmm?” Sherlock mumbled.

“You have to wake up.” John hissed. “Please, love. Wake up,” John was pretty sure that if Sherlock’s hand tightened anymore, his cock was going to fall off. “Sherlock?”

To all eyes, Sherlock didn’t wake. What he did do was loosen his grip, and then, his hand started to slide away. John groaned in relief, but the relief was short-lived as that hand choked up on him again. This time, though, it didn’t hurt. This time, it felt good. John’s wince of pain lengthened into a moan of pleasure as Sherlock stroked him. In his sleep.

Another stroke and John’s abused cock started to stir. Soon enough, he was fully hard, very nearly thrusting up into Sherlock’s hand. And Sherlock? Still asleep.

It boggled John’s mind. How could someone—so obviously sleeping—have the manual dexterity to stroke… and tug… and roll… oh, so good.

“Sherlock!” John moaned, arching up. He wasn’t trying to wake the other man anymore, he just couldn’t hold it in. Calling out Sherlock’s name in the darkness of their room quickly became one of John’s favorite parts of their relationship. Or at least it was, before this. Before Sherlock pulling him off in his sleep. Because, Christ. Those hands….

Long, glorious fingers pulled at his foreskin. Rolling it up and back, playing with the head of his cock, dipping down to tug at his balls…. Sherlock’s hands did everything John liked. Because after nearly a year together, Sherlock knew what pleased John. He just never expected Sherlock could tap into this vast knowledge of sexual techniques and preferences while asleep. Sherlock’s mind was always so active, sleep was just about the only place it shut off.

Wait, John thought. This was what Sherlock could do when he was shut off? “God…” John moaned again.

John officially couldn’t control his hips anymore. Thrusting up into Sherlock’s hand, he groaned. Louder, and longer than before. So close… another few strokes and he’d be—

“Sherlock!” John growled. The man—the sleeping man—his face tilted down. Chin brushing against John’s cheek until teeth latched onto his ear. And bit. A warm, wet tongue slid out of that mouth and tongued the shell of John’s ear. It continued to lick as lips sucked and teeth bit.

And John loved it. Every second of it. Every moment Sherlock’s hand pulled away at him, and his lips sucked at John’s ear. Oh, so wonderful… John never wanted it to end.

“Sherlock! Fuck!” The name continued to drip from between his lips as he got closer and closer to the edge.

A few more strokes and everything started to tighten. John’s hands curled around Sherlock’s back, hips bucked up into that hand. “Sherlock!” John moaned, coming in Sherlock’s still sleeping hand. Shudders ripped through him as his hips bucked up and both men rode out the wave. Sherlock’s unconscious body undulated as John thrust into the still stroking hand until it was painful.

“Sherlock! Stop!” John hissed.

As if he knew exactly what was going on, Sherlock’s hand—dripping with John’s come—pulled away. Sliding around to cup one of John’s butt cheeks. And there it stayed. And Sherlock slept on.

Panting quietly, John brought his hand up to pet Sherlock’s hair. “My God, love,” he sighed. “You’re amazing….”

“Mmm,” sleeping Sherlock moaned, rubbing his nose against John’s neck. “Love you, John.” He mumbled.

Before John could sink into post-orgasm lethargy, those three little words pulled him right out. Sherlock… loved him. The words he never thought he’d hear the man say came on the heels of another previously-believed-impossible thing. Well. There was really only one thing John could do now.

Pulling Sherlock closer, he tangled his fingers through that unruly mop of hair. “I love you too, Sherlock.” He whispered. “I always have.”

 

~

 

The next morning, John was the first to wake. He got up and hopped into the shower, cleaning away the flakey remains of last night’s… interesting activities.

John was just about to get out of the shower when the curtain slid back. Sherlock stood there, looking down at his come-coated hand. “John,” he said softly. “Why is my hand covered in your ejaculate? I know it’s yours,” he turned his wrist over and scratched at the flakey mess. “I’ve made a thorough study of yours versus mine, and this is definitely yours.”

“Yeah, about that,” John reached forward and turned off the water, grabbing his towel off the rack. “Last night, when you were curled around me. You kind of… started pulling me off.” Sherlock arched an eyebrow and John sighed. There really was no good way to say this, was there? “In your sleep.”

For a moment, Sherlock said nothing. His sharp eyes went from John’s face (probably reading every moan like it was written there) and then back to his hand. “Ah,” he said. “I see.” Another pause. “Did anything else happen?”

“Uh,” John felt his cheeks heating up. Why? This was Sherlock. They’d gotten each other off ten thousand different ways, been inside of more of each others orifices than was probably healthy. It should be nothing to tell him about the very pleasurable activities of last night…. Except for what happened after.

“Well, uh, you….”

“John?” Sherlock took a step closer, arms wrapping around the shorter man’s hips. “I won’t be mad—it’s not like you took advantage. Just tell me.”

That small smile did him in. Everytime. When Sherlock gave him that lovely, unguarded smile, John melted. Ninety-nine percent of the time, John was putty in Sherlock’s lovely hands, he knew that. And that smile? Was responsible for all ninety-nine percent.

Bringing his hands up to rub the Sherlock’s shoulders, John sighed. “You were sleep-talking. You said that you… loved… me.” There, he said it.

Another pause. Longer this time. But, he didn’t let go. Whatever he was thinking—which John could not read as easily as Sherlock could read him—Sherlock didn’t let go of John’s hips. His smile didn’t fade either, which was also good. But the silence. John couldn’t deal with the silence.

“It’s not that I don’t think you feel it,” John started. “I know that you’re a private person and maybe the L word isn’t your style. That’s fine. You know that I love you, and the way you are with me…” tender, loving, touching, the all around perfect boyfriend. You know. If you don’t count his behavior during cases. Or in public. Not the point.

“So I just felt bad, hearing it like that. You know. When you weren’t… in control….” The small smile on Sherlock’s face hadn’t faded as he let John ramble. Wait, that’s what he was doing. John glared up at him. “Why do you let me go like that?” He asked.

Sherlock chuckled softly, and leaned forward, placing a quick kiss on John’s lips. “I like listening to you babble. Even if the words are nonsense, the cadence of your voice is soothing.

“Besides,” Sherlock pulled John closer so the smaller man had to look up to keep eye contact. “Mycroft has already alerted me to the fact that I say such things in my sleep.” John’s smile fell. “Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “He said he took the cameras out, but apparently he left the microphones. Apparently I talk in my sleep nearly every night. The subject of my love for you comes up often.”

Sherlock’s eyes softened when he saw the look on John’s face. “What?” He asked, bringing his hand up to cup John’s cheek. “Did you think I didn’t feel it?” John didn’t say anything and Sherlock’s smile turned up more. “John H. Watson. I do love you, and don’t you ever doubt it.”

John smiled back. “Never again.” Going up on his toes, John touched their lips together. Then, they proceeded to make as much noise as possible as they made love in the shower. Let Mycroft hear  _that_.

The End


End file.
